Driven to Ink

Chapter 29

“Do you think he was the one who tried to run down Will Parker?” I asked when it all sunk in. “Possibly.” He wanted to say something else, but stopped himself.

I didn’t have that much self-control. “So how did he end up strangled with a clip cord and in the trunk?” I asked.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Flanigan is, I mean.”

“Anyone else’s fingerprints in the car?”

“Only yours.”

The words swirled around in my head. “Flanigan doesn’t think I had anything to do with it, does he?”

“No.”

“But?” I sensed that there was a “but” in there somewhere.

“I am not happy you’re interfering with the investigation. Someone has already threatened you.”

“I don’t know anything, though. I didn’t find out anything.”

“Maybe you did and you don’t realize it.”

I pondered that a few seconds.

While I was pondering, Tim kept talking. “You’re not to do anything else pertaining to this case,” he said. “You are to go to work and come home, and that’s it. Understand?”

“You’re not my mother.”

“If you insist on poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, I’ll call Mom and have her come out here for a visit.”

There was no greater threat than that, and he knew it. He smiled smugly, because I knew he would do it. He totally would do it. And Mom would come out here and babysit me.

No, thank you.

Not that I didn’t have a good relationship with my mother. Other than the fact that she couldn’t deal with my choice of profession, we had a pretty decent relationship. Except when she was badgering me about how I should get married.

Okay, so we had some issues. Big issues. But she was my mom. It could be worse.

Tim was watching me.

“What?” I asked, irritated.

“Are you going to stay out of this and let Flanigan do his job?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, sliding off my chair. “I’m going to bed.”

“Hold on,” he said, putting his hand up.

I sat back down. “What now?”

“What can you tell me about the car that almost hit you and Bitsy?” His tone had changed; it was his cop voice, one that I hadn’t heard too many times.

As I told him about the blue car, what had happened, and how I didn’t get a license plate number or even the make of the car, he took notes in a notebook he pulled from his back pocket.

“I’ll give this to Flanigan,” he said, getting up and starting for the living room. “You can get to bed. I’m going to watch a little tube.” As I started to pass him, he reached out and held my arm for a second. “You know I’m only worried you’re going to get into trouble, right?”

I gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s not your fault you’re turning into Dad. It’s in the genes.”

I slipped out of his grasp as he rolled his eyes at me.

I was totally not responsible for what happened the next morning. I want to make that clear. I was minding my own business, reading the paper and having my coffee when the doorbell rang.

Sylvia stood on the doorstep, a small white car parked in the driveway behind her. Must have been that rental she told me about. She wore a long-sleeved T-shirt tucked into a cotton skirt. Tattoos crawled up out of the neck of the shirt and down her legs, but this was the most covered up I’d ever seen her.

“No one knows I’m here,” she said as she came into the house and closed the door after her.

“Why are you here, then?” I asked. “Do you want coffee?”

Sylvia smiled, patted her white hair, which was pulled up into a neat bun in the back, sans rhinestone butterfly clips today, and said, “My dear, if I have coffee, I’ll be in the bathroom all day, and I don’t have time for that.”

Way too much information.

“I’ll have some prune juice,” she said, plopping down into one of the kitchen chairs.

“Um, Sylvia-”

“Don’t have any, huh? Jeff never used to, either, but now he keeps some just for me.”

I wasn’t quite sure whether Sylvia was telling me she’d be stopping by for breakfast often enough so I’d have to stock up on prune juice. I let it go.

“What’s going on?” I asked, slathering a bagel with cream cheese.

Sylvia watched. “I could take one of those. Without the cream cheese, though.”

As the bagel toasted, Sylvia took in her surroundings: the kitchen that opened up into a big family room with a sleek leather couch and big flat-screen TV plastered to the wall. Tim had gone a little crazy after Shawna moved out, taking all her Southwestern-motif furniture and decorations with her. Tim immediately painted over the blue and mauve walls with an eggshell color that contrasted sharply with the black leather. The long Scandinavian coffee table gave the room an elegance it hadn’t had before.

But then again, Tim said once you get rid of cactus-themed wall quilts, anything would look elegant.

“Less is more, right?” Sylvia said as I put the bagel in front of her and sat down again.

“Yeah. Sylvia, what are you doing here? I don’t think you came here just for breakfast.”

Sylvia grinned and took a bite of bagel. “You’re a smart girl. I tell Jeff all the time, that girl’s smart.”

It was hard sometimes to keep Sylvia on point.

“You’re here, why?” I prodded.

“Well, I went for my morning swim over at the community pool. That detective kept us late at the hospital, asking all sorts of questions. He wanted us to come to the police station, but Jeff wouldn’t have it. He said he’d bring us over today. But I snuck out so I could get my swim in. Clears the head, you know?” She tapped the side of her head and nodded.

I nodded, too, wondering where she was going with this.

“I need your help with something.”

Uh-oh. I tried to keep an open mind. Maybe she only wanted me to take her to the store to get some prune juice.

She pushed her chair back a second and rummaged in the front pocket of her skirt. She pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.

It was all crumpled up, and I smoothed it out. It was a receipt printout from a company called Tattoo Inc.

Clever.

The receipt was for a clip cord. It had been shipped to Ray Lucci at the wedding chapel.